


a fire as: rebirth, veins, home

by saintchlorine



Category: Silent Hill (Video Game Series)
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, ft. douglas' emotionally stunted gruff dad energy, it's heather's trauma and she gets to choose the father figure, this is gen please don't think otherwise, this is the douglas heather happiness arc because they deserve it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:21:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29854572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintchlorine/pseuds/saintchlorine
Summary: "A life lived empty and alone wasn't much of a life at all."(in which bones are mended, douglas tries to be a dad, and heather is learning.)
Relationships: Douglas Cartland & Heather Mason
Comments: 6
Kudos: 6





	a fire as: rebirth, veins, home

**Author's Note:**

> (note: i know her name is technically cheryl, but i call her heather throughout this for simplicity's sake. thank you for understanding my egregious breach of canon.
> 
> also not beta'd or anything, so all errors are my own and/or grammarly's. blame us)

– and she was finally free.

Heather got Douglas to the hospital eventually, teaching herself to drive as she went. She was awful at it, veering to the side every time she looked to make sure he was okay. Douglas went in and out of lucidity; the hospital staff said it was probably from shock rather than blood, but that he’d probably need a transfusion regardless. They took him away on a stretcher behind the doors, but they wouldn’t let her come with them. She sat in the visitation waiting room, having nowhere else to go, and stared at the ground with wide eyes. When they finally said she could go in to see him for a minute _(and only a minute, because you aren’t family–)_ the sun was rising.

Heather sat by his bed, watching him sleep. He was doped up, his leg hung in a sling with a thick cast covering it. A nurse took pity on Heather and offered to get her something to drink. Heather nodded, not fully comprehending the offer as she watched Douglas. When the nurse came back and reached out to hand Heather an Orange Crush, her instinct was to jump back _hard_ , knocking her knees into the table and scraping the chair. The nurse apologized profusely for scaring her and left the can on the table before rolling his work stand away in a rush. He didn't come back in. The can sat untouched the entire time, droplets of condensation rolling onto the plastic tray. Everything in the room smelled like bleach; too clean, cleaner than she wanted or needed or knew. There was no sound other than the air conditioner’s hums in the corner.

She jumped again when a staff member came in and said it was time for her to go. They asked her if she needed a ride home and she nodded, standing up. Her hands felt wet and it took a few seconds before she realized her knuckles were clenched white, crescent moons drawing blood from her palms. Heather felt like the witch she'd always been, carving it into herself like those old wooden desks. She wiped her hands off on her skirt, held her vest under her arm, and got in the taxi they called for her. Heather asked to be dropped off a quarter-mile from her house, afraid that someone might follow.

There was something new and feral jumping around in her skin ever since she left Silent Hill. Now that Douglas was safe, it was all she could think about. As she walked home, pieces of anger, hatred, love, anger, _energy_ zipped around inside her. Her chest cavity was a pinball machine and she ached with the need to _feel something,_ anything, to be gruesome and feral and crack rust under her fingernails. Despite the urge, she didn’t run home, didn’t pump her legs until they ached with the effort and went taut. Some needs were not meant to be fulfilled.

...

Heather locked herself up at home, though it didn't feel like one anymore. There was no stench of rotting flesh, so she assumed the body was gone, though she didn't have the strength to check. A huge curtain hung from the ceiling, tacked to the plaster with pushpins, separating the living room from the rest of the house. She couldn't stand to look at it anymore, too consumed with the blood soaking the rug and the damp, metallic stench of the recliner. It would do her no good to remember that night. The door to her bedroom was lost behind the curtain, but she didn't mind. There was nothing left for her in there.

That first night, she threw pillows and blankets down by the kitchen counter. She dredged up a bat from one of the closets and laid it down next to her. With her hand wrapped around the bat's base, she slept fitfully on the floor every night. There was something safe about that corner. She was out of sight, had the advantage if anyone came in. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, she would shoot up and swing the bat when the pipes under the sink gurgled. Caution lived deep inside of her now, bravery seeping out bit by bit. It was okay. It was safer that way.

Heather ate piecemeal like a bird for days, always just enough to stay lucid and never much more. She wasn't hungry, always had to choke down sunflower seeds and water and stale saltines. Almost everything else had gone rotten in the time spent away, and what was still good made her want to puke. There was meat in the freezer, still perfectly fresh, but the thought of cooking it made her feel sick. It was impossible to look at it now, not after that, not after–

She didn't like to think about it.

Douglas finally stopped by a week and a half after his hospital admittance. He hobbled in through the front door on crutches, reeking of cigarettes and balancing a paper bag under his chin. Heather tucked herself further into the corner, knowing it was him but still so afraid that it _hurt_. When he found her on the floor, he set the bag down on the counter and extended a hand, muttering something disapproving. She didn't flinch but gripped the bat a little tighter, taking a few seconds before putting her other hand in his. Heather let Douglas help her up, knees wobbling under her weight.

"What are you doing?" he muttered, brows furrowed in concern.

"Standing," she said with a shrug. Her feeble attempt at a joke broke down almost immediately, her eyes flooding with tears as she took in quick, ragged breaths. Douglas stood still for a minute as she cried, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. Finally, he set a crutch down and wrapped an arm around her, offering an awkward side hug. It all felt so bizarre. Heather hadn't heard her own voice, let alone anyone else's, in _so long._ Or maybe it hadn’t been long at all. She couldn’t tell with the way it all blurred together, her apartment dark no matter the time of day. It could have been days, months, minutes– it didn't matter. The damage was done.

It took everything in her not to shove Douglas away. The scratch of his coat on her bare arms, the scent of cigarettes that clung to his skin, the warmth of another person– it was all too much. So, Heather clenched her fists, held tight to the jacket, and sobbed into his shoulder. She cried properly, brutally, _finally_ and Douglas held her through it. He didn't say a word, just patted her on the back and cleared his throat a few times. She heard him sniffle once or twice but didn't look up to see if he was crying too. Heather didn't want to know.

When she calmed down, Douglas told her to pack a bag of things she needed. He said that they'd be back, that he'd help her sort, but for now she just needed the basics.

"I don't need anything," Heather said, the words catching in her throat.

"What about clothes?" Douglas asked. "You're gonna need to change. There's still…"

He didn't have to finish his sentence for Heather to know what he meant. Her vest was splattered with old blood, little bits of viscera crusted to the surface. She took it off in the hospital when she dropped Douglas off, tucking it away so they wouldn't ask questions. Not wearing it felt wrong, like she was missing a limb, even though it stunk like the church and cracked with every move she made. She didn’t know what else to do.

"I want to keep it," Heather asserted. "I need it."

"Okay," Douglas said slowly, visible disgust plain on his face. "But you're gonna need a change anyways while that stuff gets washed. Go grab something, alright? Doesn't matter what."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because it's…" Heather gestured at the curtain. "It's all back there."

"What do you–" Douglas cut himself off as he looked at the curtain. She could tell the memory was burned into his mind as well, the chair and the carpet and the old television set and all the _blood._ "That's okay. Yeah, it's fine. We'll get you something somewhere, alright? Let's just head out."

Douglas reached to pick up the bag he'd set down and groaned with the effort. Heather grabbed it for him and set it in the crook of her arm. He nodded his thanks and readjusted his crutches. It was surprisingly heavy; whatever was in there probably shouldn't have been in a paper bag. She put a hand under the bottom to steady it and took a deep, shuddery breath.

"Okay. Let's go."

Douglas nodded and hobbled over to the door. He tried to open it for her but struggled to get a grip on it without compromising his crutches. Heather huffed a laugh through her nose and turned the handle, holding it open to let him through.

"Nice try, old man. I appreciate the effort, though."

"You're not the one with a broken leg here, kid. Cut me some slack," he said with a laugh that devolved into a hacking cough. It echoed through the empty halls, strange and tinny as it bounced around. She was glad that something finally broke her silence. No one was around but him. It was safe.

Heather smiled as she shut the door behind them and, to her surprise, it almost felt genuine.

…

Douglas insisted on Heather taking his bed, even when she assured him the couch would work just fine. He waved her off and muttered something about the kitchen floor as he grabbed fresh sheets out of the closet. Heather snatched them from him; if he was going to subject himself to the couch, changing the bed was the least she could do. He didn't say _thank you,_ but she knew that the detached little nod he gave meant the same thing. That was more than enough.

Heather watched as he walked out into the living room of the apartment. The walls were a dingy beige, peeling in some spots. No art hung on the walls and there were no family photos in sight. It was all so… empty. Lifeless. As if there wasn't even a person living here, just a ghost. She felt sad looking at it all, couldn't even imagine having this to come home to every day. A stab of pity shot through her gut as she pictured him alone at his T.V. night after night. A life lived empty and alone wasn't much of a life at all.

He paused as he approached a door on the far left side of the apartment, reaching for the handle but hesitating to turn out. It was the same apprehension, the same wild-eyed pause, with which she looked at the curtain back home. She realized it must be his son's room, full of old memories and items that weren't anyone's anymore. Heather held her breath when he finally went in.

When he returned, he handed her a huge t-shirt for a band she'd never heard of and a pair of drawstring basketball shorts. They were almost certainly his son's old clothes; they'd never fit Douglas and she couldn't imagine anyone else would have a set of clothes in this apartment. Had he kept them around the whole time? Judging by the way they smelled like stuffy old air and mothballs, it seemed likely. She didn't mind. It was kind of sweet, in a weird way. There was something comforting in the intimacy of the gesture.

Heather sped through her shower, not liking the vulnerability of it all and wanting it to be over with. When she hopped out and got dressed, she tried not to think too hard about how she was putting on a dead man's clothes. It was strange to think that, despite having never met, they shared the connection of skin on this cotton. Heather wondered what he was like. Was he funny? Serious? Kind? Cold? What did he look like? Did he have anyone he loved? What was his favorite color? _Who was he?_

Heather realized she didn't even know his name.

When she went out into the living room, she saw Douglas in the kitchen muttering to himself. He was carefully peeling the plastic off the top of two T.V. dinners and swore when the steam hit his hand. Heather watched him for a minute, smiling when he put on two oven mitts to get the trays to the table. He startled when he saw her, almost spilling the microwaved corn on the floor.

"Hey kid," he said, clearing his throat. "Wasn't sure if you were hungry, but I… I threw one in for ya anyways. Figured I might as well since I was already at it."

Heather nodded and took a seat at the table across from Douglas. She thanked him as he set the blue plastic tray in front of her, along with a slightly bent fork and mismatched knife. The big paper bag was in the chair next to her, still stapled shut. She didn't want to eat anything.

When she looked down at the meal, her stomach lurched. There was a Salisbury steak, awful even when she wasn't feeling this way, oozing with deep brown-red sauce and steaming on the tray. The smell of it, sweet and salty and _fleshy_ , made her gag. She pushed it away harder than she meant to, knocking the tray into the center of the table. Heather put a hand over her mouth, trying not to vomit as she thought about the last thing that had come out of her throat, just as red and meaty and vile and–

"Hey, are you okay?" Douglas asked, standing up with surprising speed for someone so injured. Heather swallowed hard and squeezed her eyes shut.

"I can't eat that," she said, the words muffled by her hand.

"What do you mean? It's just…" Douglas trailed off and huffed a laugh. After a moment of silence, Heather heard shuffling in the kitchen and opened her eyes slowly to see what was happening. Douglas came back to the table with a pair of big kitchen scissors in hand. Heather went still, alarms going off in her head. She tried to plan an exit, figured she was quicker than him, that the front door was five paces away, she would make great time as long as got up _now–_

But Douglas didn't get any closer. He sat down across from her again and grabbed the tray. With steady hands, he cut the plastic divider that held the steak and separated it from the rest of the tray, leaving only the vegetables and dessert. He slid it back to her and set the extra steak aside. Without a word, he resumed his meal.

After a moment, Heather picked up her fork and stuck it in the brownie, tearing off a piece. Douglas glanced at her and made a disapproving noise.

"Geez, skipping your protein _and_ starting with dessert? Were you raised by wolves?"

"Not far from it," Heather retorted, taking a bite. It felt so good to eat _actual food_ again, even if it was processed, microwaveable slop that probably contained as much plastic as it was cooked in. "How did you know? About the steak, I mean."

"I'm a detective, aren't I?" Douglas deadpanned, though Heather could see a hint of a smile. It was a small comfort. 

She was happy to take it.

…

After Douglas rinsed their trays and tossed them in the trash (although Heather cringed at the waste of it all), he sat with a groan and leaned back in his seat. The wood creaked underneath him as adjusted until he was comfortable.

"Go ahead and open that bag up," he said, gesturing at the chair next to her. Heather resented the command and lack of manners but decided not to push him on it. She pried open the sack, ripping the paper in her efforts and cursing under her breath.

"Language," Douglas chided. She couldn't tell if he was being serious or not; what a hypocrite. As she opened her mouth to say something to that effect, Heather was stopped by the realization of what was in the bag.

With her hands carefully positioned around the base, Heather pulled the object out. She understood now why the bag had been so heavy; inside was a large metal urn, polished bright and gleaming. It was nothing fancy, almost certainly the cheapest one at the funeral home, and Heather's eyes welled up as she read the inscription. It was Dad.

"How did you…" Heather trailed off, the words catching in her throat. Douglas understood regardless.

"It's a long story for another time," he muttered, clearing his throat with a cough. "You see my coat over there? Check the left inside pocket."

Heather sniffled as she stood, taking short steps to the coat rack in the corner. With an apprehensive hand, she reached into the coat and fumbled for the pocket. There was something round and heavy in it, almost like a rock. She fished around in the huge pocket, latching onto a cold metal chain. With the chain between her fingers, she pulled carefully, not trusting that whatever it was wasn't going to kill her. She held her breath as she freed it from the pocket, turning it over in her hands. It was a necklace, heavier than most, with a cloudy glass base and decorative metal swirls that connected to the hook and chain. She shook it a little and found that there was something inside the base. When Heather took a closer look, she realized they were ashes. Harry's ashes.

"I know you had that necklace from your old man and it got kinda messed up, so… I got you a new one. Y'know, to remember him by."

Heather looked at it a moment longer before pulling it over her head. She flipped her hair out of the chain and looked down at it, tears falling in earnest now. There were no words to describe the combination of grief, joy, awe, and emptiness she felt in that moment, so she didn't even try. She just walked over to Douglas and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder as she hugged him.

Douglas went tense at the contact, clearly not used to being touched, but he settled into after a moment. With careful arms as if he was afraid she would shatter, he returned the hug. When she cried harder, he gently patted her back and muttered _it'll be okay, kid_ over and over again like a prayer. He didn't say anything about the tears soaking through his shirt.

…

The next day, he took Heather to some beat-up thrift store that made use of an old grocery store's building. He was in no state to drive, so he tried to convince Heather that he'd be just fine walking. The effort with which he lugged himself around on those crutches said otherwise. When she was unsuccessful in convincing him that she'd be able to drive _(I'll never learn if I don't try!)_ they compromised on a taxi. It was only about a mile away; they spent more time getting in and out of the car than they did riding in it. Douglas gave the driver a big tip for his troubles, saying something about having to deal with an old man.

When they finally got to the thrift store, Douglas was winded. He took a seat on a bench out front and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. With labored breaths, he lit it and took a drag. Heather sat on the arm of the bench, slumped over and picking at her nails. When Douglas coughed out a plume of smoke, Heather gave him a disapproving glare. He raised his eyebrows at her when he noticed, taking another drag.

"What?" he asked, voice tight from holding in the smoke.

"Smoking kills, you know."

Douglas laughed and exhaled slowly. "So don't ever do it."

When he finished, they went inside. Heather went straight for the women's pants, eager to get out of the basketball shorts that she couldn't cinch tight enough no matter what. When Douglas realized that it was going to be a while, he took a seat near the changing rooms and let her do all the shopping.

Although Douglas claimed to have no fashion sense, he certainly had a lot of opinions on the clothes she eventually brought to him. She learned that he didn't like the color blue, hated polka dots, and believed that sleeves were the only way to go. Heather got a blue polka-dot tank top just to see his face when she set it on the checkout counter. He grumbled but paid for it anyway, along with a few other outfits for her.

When they were outside, Douglas groaned and said he forgot something. He told Heather to wait right where she was and that he'd be back in a minute. She nodded and took a seat on the bench, trying not to let the anxiety of being alone again get to her. Everyone looked like a threat and she couldn't stop her mind from racing, picking out all the ways in which every stranger could hurt her. A pointed umbrella to the throat, a briefcase to the skull, a backpack with a knife that could slide between her ribs.

When she saw a woman with long blonde hair, Heather held her breath and tried to disappear into the brick, camouflage herself out of existence. In her panic, she almost didn't even notice that the blonde woman was also wearing jeans and on a children's scooter and so obviously _not_ Claudia that it was hilarious. If she felt less stupid for her worrying, she might have even laughed.

When Douglas came back outside, she almost melted with relief. It wasn't safe for either of them to be alone anymore. She protected him now. He'd kept her safe, gotten her to Silent Hill, challenged Claudia and the cult, and tried his best to save Heather. It didn't matter that she'd saved herself in the end; only two people in the world had ever done that for her and only one of them remained. She wouldn't make the same mistakes again.

They hailed another taxi, though Douglas' tip was far less this time. It seemed fitting for him to get so caught up in the kind gesture the first time that he wasn't able to do it again. She noticed a twinge of guilt on his face as he handed over only a few dollars. Heather thought it was nice regardless; half the people around here didn't tip at all, just paid their fare and let it be. Heather had been one of them, once upon a time. She didn't think she ever could be again.

When they got inside, Heather dumped out the bags of clothes and changed into something that actually, blessedly fit her. She was more comfortable that way; there was something unpleasant in the swaths of loose fabric, her body just floating within it. The clothes were more grounding this way. She felt safer, more capable. Less empty.

Douglas gave her a notebook when she came back out, the glue from the price tag still tacky on the cover. Other than a childish scribble on the inside cover, it was perfectly clean. The paper wasn't the best, but it seemed thick enough to handle ink and the ruling was a clean, crisp grey. She didn't get why he'd gone to all of the trouble of going back inside for it, though. It was fine, simple, but nothing worth all the hassle for.

"I know your dad was a writer," Douglas explained when she didn't make any comment. "And you probably have some stuff you wanna get out. I figured you could give writing it down a shot, y'know? Since there isn't really anyone to talk about it, 'cept for me. I'm not much of one for… I don't know, emotions and all that. Never been good with 'em. And you're a smart girl, real creative. You can probably write some good stuff in there. If you don't want to, that's fine too. I just thought it might be nice." He finished with a shrug, trying to dampen the emotional impact of his words. 

It didn't work, but Heather avoided sobbing on him this time. Instead, she gave him another hug and was happy when he didn't flinch quite so hard this time. He patted her back and matched her smile when she pulled away. Douglas felt like home. Heather hoped he looked at her and felt the same way.

…

Heather started writing everything down. She documented what she did, what she ate, what happened in her dreams and nightmares, and what little things made her remember it all. Remembering was painful, but she took the power away from it every time she put the memories down in ink and forced them out of her head. She let Douglas read it once, just a few pages that weren't terrible or hopeless, and he gave her such a huge, proud smile. He admitted that he didn't do much reading, but told her she had real talent. Said he'd love to read more whenever she had some to share. It was the most blatantly emotional she'd ever seen him, even though it still didn't last longer than a few minutes. Maybe someday he'd open up more. For now, it was more than enough.

One morning, when the nightmares kept her up until dawn, she slipped out onto the roof of the apartment building. It was hard to convince herself that she was safe up there, but it needed to be done. She needed to be able to look at the world and not see it blood-soaked and heaving. The concrete was cold and the breeze was louder up there, high above the roads. There was no screech of grinding metal, no gore-streaked claws or rusted grates or broken fences. It was just a roof, and the world below was just the world. There was nothing evil about it. Heather was learning to accept that.

When she sat down and pulled out her notebook, she noticed that there were only a few pages left. Heather would have to make the most of them; she needed a grand finale. The end of this notebook was the end of a chapter was the end of a stage of life. She was turning 18 next week, would be an adult out there in the world. Heather didn't know if she was ready. It wasn't like there was a choice.

Up on that roof, she allowed memories to flood in. There was safety here, and although her pulse throbbed like a forest fire, she kept herself steady. Heather crossed her legs and held the pen tight, pressed the tip to the page, and remembered.

She remembered her father and all the sad smiles he gave her when she was little. Sometimes she got the sense he didn't fully trust her, could never truly know her. Now she understood why. There was no blaming him for it; he knew the fire that lived in her, the fire that burned her, the fire that kept her alive deep in her abdomen. It was all forgiven. He had burned too, peacefully and contained, and she wore the evidence of it around her neck. Those flames were a beautiful thing. There were so few beautiful fires left in the world.

She remembered the fires that the God had conjured with her matchstick fingers, the licks that had chased her and the blisters on her calves as a result. The God who should never have been born, who came out too soon, who forced Heather into incubator into mother and swallowed up the earth when She didn't get Her way. It was heartbreaking, the brutality with which something so young could destroy if given the body to do it, the mindless need to killkillkill when nothing else has been learned yet.

She remembered that God was a woman and that she puked Her up and killed Her. The God, that mirror image of herself, dressed in half-finished bones with Valtiel's veil over Her eyes. Heather felt like maybe she'd worn that veil too, unaware of it as her boots grew thick with grey matter, as she stomped two-headed dogs into the tile and heard the _squelch_ of their bodies, as she never stopped to think quite hard enough about what it all meant. God was dead, the veil was lifted, and now she could think of nothing else.

She was Mother, Martyr, Seraph, Saint, Pontius Pilate in the deicidal slaughter and she was Cain and she was Abel and she was the rock that separated their skins in the grand finale. It felt like a knife was trying to tear its way out of her and she held back the urge to vomit at the influx of memories. Heather was everything good and evil and perfect and disgusting in the world, Saint Anathema and Holy Curse and a million other oxymorons she couldn't fathom yet. There was nothing left to be. She wanted a reset, wanted a do-over, wanted simple and kind and safe.

She just wanted to be a kid again. 

So Heather wrote that down.

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes a family can be a grizzled detective and a traumatized teen who almost gave birth to god 
> 
> hit me up on [tumblr](https://saintchlorine.tumblr.com)! kudos and comments are greatly appreciated <3


End file.
